My food is alive

I have become smitten with bacteria. I enjoy the company of yeasts, too, and enzymes, for the work they do in converting energy from one form into another and, especially, making alcohol out of carbohydrates and sugar. Brewers and winemakers, of course, would be knee-deep in sweet fruit juice and sticky barley gruel if it wasn’t for yeast.

Bacteria of the lactobacillus genus, however, are currently the main object of my admiration. They play a minor role in brewing beer, and that is where I first became consciously acquainted with them. Sour beers, whether turned funky in barrels post-fermentation or in the beer kettle prebrew, owe themselves to lacto, as admirers often call the bacteria.

However, several species of lactobacillus play a role in the souring—and, more importantly, preservation—of foodstuffs that goes far beyond the realm of alcoholic beverages. Lactobacilli live in our midst, just about everywhere. Among their diverse range of habitats is the surface of the food we eat; the bacteria live on fruits and vegetables and grains. To really thrive, though, lactobacilli need a liquid medium in which they can proliferate. They can do so in beer, which produces results that some people love and others not so much. They can also do their work in simpler environments—like, say, a jar of water with cabbage, where the bacteria metabolize sugars, creating lactic acid and the products we call sauerkraut and kimchi.

But fermented cabbage really is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the many wild and funky wonders that the lactobacillus genus can create. Once I got the hang of fermenting cabbage—it’s super easy—about a year ago, I began to apply the concept in other environments, with other ingredients. I tried slicing up carrots and submerging them in water in a mason jar. Sure enough, the liquid began to fizz and gurgle—the signs that lactobacillus is in the room. Well, in the jar, at least. Last fall, I collected 60 pounds of olives in the Central Valley and submerged them in brine. Lactobacilli quickly populated the jars, and I now have gallons of zesty, naturally fermented olives.

I have also begun fermenting seaweed—just within batches of kimchi for now, but I will soon be experimenting with jars of pure fermented nori and kombu and sea lettuce.

Two things have occurred to me in the course of my trials with lacto fermentation that I believe are remarkable. First, fermenting things in jars is absolutely a means of preservation, not just a time-consuming way to prepare dinner. A bag of greens rots and turns to putrid slime if left in a plastic bag in the fridge—but put those veggies in a jar with water or a light brine, and they’ll last for many months, preserved in lactic acid. The second thing that has struck me is that lacto fermentation creates flavors and smells—essences that are pungent, sour, gassy and spicy—that simply cannot be replicated in almost any other way.

Actually, another thing occurred to me as I advanced in my fermentation experiments, and this was a big jump forward: If I could preserve plants this way, what about animals? What about fish? I had heard about fermented shark meat, and I did some research. On the internet I came across discussions on how to make surströmming, a Swedish product that translates into “sour herring.” I happened to have a surplus of herring in my chest freezer—the bounty from several net-throwing outings in San Francisco Bay in January. I now have about 20 of the fish in mason jars, turning funky in a 17 percent salt brine. If the product turns out well, I will ramp up my production next season.

A goal of mine is to preserve fish and other foods in the absence of plastic—just salt, water and bacteria.